


Streetlights

by reichenfall



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Pre-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-28
Updated: 2013-02-12
Packaged: 2017-11-10 23:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/471674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reichenfall/pseuds/reichenfall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After John is a victim of Moriarty's revenge, Sherlock must determine his priorities:  John, or playing the game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Sherlock, what the hell were you thinking?” He grabs the detective's scarf, which had trailed behind him as he ran up the stairs of their flat. Sherlock stops and turns to John, frowning.  
  
“John, despite your obvious concerns, I am an adult, and a highly intelligent one at that. I do not need your _babying_. ” He spits out the last word, his disgust evident in his eyes.  
  
“I’m not babying you, I’m protecting you from your own stupidity.” Sherlock’s eyes turn to ice. “For such a genius, you can be an absolute idiot sometimes.”  
  
John pushes past him and enters the flat. Sherlock hesitates a moment, then follows. “John, I was in control of the situation. The suspect didn’t have a clear shot at me, and I knew you were on your way.”  
  
“You had no clue where I was! I got your text when I was with a patient! You were lucky I forgot to turn my phone on silent this morning, or else you’d be floating down the Thames, dead.” Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. “No, don’t even say anything. There was absolutely no way you knew I would make it there in time. I think I value your life more than you do.” He shakes his head, disbelieving. “I’m going for a walk. Don’t bother deducing why, it obviously doesn’t matter to you.”  
  
John walks out of the flat, down the stairs, out the door of 221 Baker Street, and into the streets of London. Sherlock watches from the window, an unspoken apology still on his lips.  
  
**********  
  
Cold, fuming, and alone, John Watson lets his feet carry him across London. He doesn't care where he is going, so long as it is _away_ . Away from Sherlock, away from 221B, away from all of his problems.  
  
As he walks, his breathing gradually slows; the ragged panting abates to the steady breaths his time in the army had taught him. The steady rhythm of his feet against the wet pavement is soothing; it calms his mind enough to consider his anger. Why does he bother putting up with Sherlock? It isn't for the ease of living; if anything, dealing with Sherlock and his moodiness is the most difficult part of his life. It isn't for the violin playing late at night, or the body parts in the fridge, or the post-case boredom.  And it definitely is not for the arguments that are inevitably induced by Sherlock’s eccentric behaviour.  
  
In truth, it seems to John that the man _wanted_ to fight with him, which wouldn’t even be surprising. Sherlock probably considers it a way to escape his inescapable boredom.  
With a shake of his head, John brings himself back to awareness.  
  
Looking around, he realizes he had walked farther than he had been expecting while lost in his thoughts. He had ended up in a dark, empty street, far from anywhere he recognizes. The sparse streetlights are flickering and dim, and provide little light and certainly little comfort.  
  
As he stands, looking up and down the street in the hopes of seeing something familiar, he hears a cry in the alley behind him. John turns toward the sound, surprise evident in his face. It sounds like a cry of pain, closely followed by a low “ help” .  
  
John sprints into the alley, where a figure is lying on the ground clutching his side. There is a large Bowie knife, covered in blood next to him. A mugging then, and a violent one too. Probable stab wound, must control the bleeding; John pulls off his jacket to use as a compress.  
  
“I’m a doctor, I can help you,” John tells the man as he drops to his knees next to him. He looks for the stab wound, but none are visible. “Where are you hurt? What happened? Where did the mugger go?” As he reaches into his pocket to get his phone, John sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Shit. The mugger had never left. John spins around to face the attacker, only to see a very familiar face.  
  
“Hello, Doctor Watson. Bit late for a walk, isn’t it?”. The voice is high, the syllables sung, and the words mocking. James Moriarty, consulting criminal and the man that still haunts his nightmares, stands in front of him. Smiling. As if the months of sleepless nights following the pool scene weren’t enough, John would surely have new nightmares after this encounter. If he survives it.  
  
As these thoughts fly through John’s head, he hears shuffling behind him, quickly followed by the unmistakable press of a gun against his head. “Don’t move, or I will shoot you.”  
  
Of course. The man's injury had been faked to draw John into the trap, knowing that a doctor would never ignore a person in pain. The man is tall, with medium-length blonde hair. His voice is gruff and left no room for argument. His stance shouts military, but his longer, untidy hair tells John that he is no longer serving. Military career ended early because of . . . what? No obvious injuries, so a dishonorable discharge seems most likely. Either way, he was not someone John would feel comfortable near while he held a gun, least of all to his head. 

  
Moriarty had continued talking. “What has Sherlock done now? Doesn’t he care about you? He doesn’t just let his pet wander around London.” He claps his hands together, grinning. “Oh well, his loss! All the more fun for Sebastian and me!”  
  
John doesn't like how that sounds. He recognizes the playful madness burning in Moriarty’s eyes from that night at the pool - that night that ended up with him strapped to a bomb, covered by snipers, and convinced it would be his last.  
  
“What do you want, Moriarty? Sherlock doesn’t even know I’m here.” John can't keep the slight hurt out of his voice, a fact that Moriarty takes obvious glee in.  
  
“Left his pet all alone in the cold? Sherlock’s slipping! I wonder how he would feel if he found out that his doctor got himself a bit injured? Do you think he would care, or would he just leave you once he realized that you’re useless to him? I think it’s worth an experiment.” His eyes flash, and he looks at the man holding the gun to John. “Moran, shoot Doctor Watson in the foot.”  
  
Twisting, John punches Moran in the face, feeling the snap of the bone, simultaneously grabbing the muzzle of the pistol and pushing it away from him. Moran, taken by surprise, can do little more than keep his hold on the gun and swing his other arm clumsily at John in retaliation.  
  
John’s luck doesn't hold out long before Moran’s army training kicks in, and before John can react, Moran hits his head with the barrel of the gun and forces him to his knees. Blinking reflex tears out of his eyes, John puts his hands in the air. The game was up; there was no way out of this.  
  
Moriarty could sense his resignation. “You’ll have to try harder than that to stop Moran. All you did was make him angry.” He giggles, as if seeing Moran with blood covering his face was a normal occurrence. Hell, knowing Moriarty, it probably was. “Unfortunately for you, Doctor Watson, I did make Sherlock a promise, and I never break my promises.” The words from the night at the pool echo through John’s head: _I will burn the heart out of you_. Both he and Sherlock know very well what heart Moriarty had been referring to.  
  
John keeps his face blank, a task made very difficult by the pain in his head and the pounding of his heart. “If you think hurting me will make Sherlock continue playing your game, then you’re wrong.”  
  
Moriarty grins, shaking his head. “Of course he’s going to play my game! He doesn’t have any other options if he wants his favorite doctor to live.” John can't help the little gasp of surprise that escapes him. Moriarty’s smile grows even wider as he continues. “We both know that he’d do anything to keep you from harm. Too bad for him, he’s a bit late today!” Moriarty motions to Moran, and John feels the gun move away from his head. “Why don’t we make his scars symmetrical, Moran? Right shoulder it is.”  
  
John senses the gun move to the right. He closes his eyes, trembling. Not the shoulder, it had been hell when he was shot in Afghanistan. He is not sure he could survive another crippling injury - physically, and mentally, especially an injury that is sure to bring back the terrible, vivid nightmares.  
  
The bang of the gun brings John out of his thoughts and into the present. He feels the all too familiar feeling of the bullet ripping, tearing through him, breaking bone and destroying muscle. He cries out in agony and falls to the ground, shaking. His left hand is near the knife, and he squints through the pain, trying to ignore the fire in his shoulder, to reach for the blade.  
  
“Oh, no you don’t!” Moriarty walks over to him and steps on his hand. John barely notices the pressure past the searing pain in his shoulder. “I’m sure you don’t want Sebastian to shoot you again, do you?” He crouches next to John, who can barely see through a haze of pain. “Lucky for you, I don’t want you dead - yet. I’m even going to tell Sherlock where to find you.”  
  
He leans towards John and whispers in his ear, “Tell Sherlock I send him my love, and the game is on once again.” The words barely register in John’s mind, close to passing out from the combined blood loss and agony. His eyes close, and the sound of retreating footsteps and faint sirens are the last things he hears before the blackness surrounding his mind closes and he and loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is my very first fic, so criticism is very much appreciated!  
> Many thanks to my beta, Christina (avengelock-hiddlebatch).  
> The title is from the song of the same name by White Lies, and this chapter's title is from the Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack, which I had on loop while writing this.
> 
> *Spoilers*  
> The original prompt, given to me by Tori (unreasonablyme): angst prompt: a ship of your choice. One character is in the hospital shot and the other is trying to get into the hospital room to see him/her.


	2. Chapter 2

_“I think I value your life more than you do.”_

John’s words echo in Sherlock’s head as he watches John walk down Baker Street from the window of the flat. He stands back a bit, so if John was to look back at the flat all he would see was the reflection of the light from the street and not the pale, thin face that watches him from 221B. Sherlock’s mind slows as it fills with emotion. _Guilt. Regret. Shame?_ Interesting; he thought he had made himself impregnable to the crippling nature of emotions. John had managed to find a crack in his armor of sociopathy.

Frowning, Sherlock retreats from his spot by the window and shruggs off his coat and scarf. The flat was dark and cold; John hadn’t been in long enough to start a fire or turn any lights on. No matter, he doesn’t need light to think. Sherlock lays himself across the sofa, his long legs stretching luxuriously in front of him. He steeples his fingers under his chin and retreats into his mind palace.

Ever since John had first seen him use the technique a few weeks after the taxi driver case (‘A Study in Pink?’ Must John always choose the least imaginative names?), John had thought that Sherlock’s mind palace was like a Taj Mahal, filled with bank vaults of information. Sherlock remembered the conversation well; John had made them both tea after a long, particularly rainy day following leads on a case. “What is it like in that brilliant brain of yours? Buckingham Palace?” he had asked with a smile.

In reality, Sherlock’s mind palace was a bit more close to home. In fact, it was home; Sherlock made use of the layout of 221B to organize his observations. It made the most sense; it was the only place where he truly felt comfortable. Mycroft’s mansion had too many drug-related memories associated with it (and of course Mycroft himself; his presence put Sherlock off), and no other flat that Sherlock had lived in had John. Sentiment. He had thought himself above it, and he was, until John came along with a limp and an illegal gun and turned his world upside down.

He walks into the flat of his mind palace. It was identical to the actual 221B, down to the empty tea mugs and case-related papers littering the table and floor. Hurricane Sherlock, as John likes to call Sherlock's tendancy for disorder. The bison skull (a gift from a client in America – interesting case, a missing diamond ring that evolved into a bison hunt on the American prairie) hangs on the wall, a sentinel over the room and its contents. Sherlock sweeps his gaze across the room. Experiment information stored in the kitchen, childhood memories locked up tight in the small box in the closet of his room.

He walks into the sitting room, where he stores his John-related memories. The yellow face, graffitied on the wall and highlighted with bullet holes, smiles at him as he approaches the sofa. Under it is a small, black safe with a digital display, which glowes eerily in the darkness beneath the furniture. Sherlock crouches down and reaches towards the safe. He types in the code, 5-6-4-6. His subconscious may have been the one to create the code, but his conscious mind understands what it means. _J-O-H-N_. His heart, as Moriarty had said so eloquently, protecting pieces of his mind. It was so accurate, and yet Sherlock refused to admit it to anyone - not even John.

The safe makes a soft click as it unlocks, and Sherlock opens it slowly. Inside is a small, worn leather journal. He picks it up, lightly stroking the spine before flipping it open. His John-journal memory space was one of his most used accessed (next to the experiment results he stored in the refrigerator), but it was his least understood collection of data. There was something about the ex-army doctor that was incomprehensible to Sherlock, no matter how often he analyzed the memories. Sherlock flips the journal open to the last used page, where his own script covers the white sheet.

He rarely feels the need to record his observations, but in his mind palace every single memory and deduction was recorded and ready to be analysed at any moment. It is an excellent technique Sherlock employs to de-clutter the hard drive that is his brain. He thumbs through the pages of the journal until he comes to the chapter he was looking for. _Emotions and Body Language._ Comparing his observations of John’s behavior (posture: slightly forward, eyes narrowed; language: struggled to speak, tone: low, urgent, wavering) and the collected data, John appeared to be angry, frustrated, and . . . concerned? Odd. Will have to devote more time to the information.

Sherlock’s trance-like state was broken and he was thrown out of his mind palace by a sharp ringing by his ear. His phone was laying on the table next to him, a new message alert flashing on its screen. Interest piqued and concentration broken, he picks it up and read the text from an unknown number.

_The Lion went once a-hunting along with the Fox . . . They hunted and they hunted 'til at last they surprised a Stag, and soon took its life. -J.M._

There is a picture attached. Sherlock opens it, dread twisting his stomach into knots and causing his breath to catch in his throat. He forces himself to sweep his eyes over the image. Dark alley. Obviously London, given the size, light level, and items of trash. Appears to be somewhere within a few blocks of Baker Street, due to the architecture of the buildings surrounding the focus of the picture. John - no, not John, the victim (he must be sure to separate his emotions from this; he cannot afford to let them compromise his ability to process this new data) - lay in a pool of blood, unconscious or dead.

No, not dead.

 

He can't be dead.

Sherlock stands up and begins pacing. John’s life depends on how quickly Sherlock can find him and he has to think rationally. Panicking will do nothing to help John. He stops, eyes dashing back and forth madly as he maps possible locations in his mind. He picks up his phone and begins sending out text messages rapid-fire. Homeless network, those who owe him favors from previously solved cases, even Angelo – nobody escaped the reaches of Sherlock’s (not-quite-so-obvious) pleas for help. Looking through his contacts, Sherlock’s eyes rest on one in particular. Mycroft. Throwing sibling rivalries and old grudges aside, he presses the dial button and waits for what felt like an eternity before he hears his brother’s voice on the line.

“Sherlock. A pleasure, as always.” Mycroft’s drawling tones set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. His smug attitude had always brought out the worst moods in Sherlock, and it takes a large amount of control on Sherlock’s part to keep his voice neutral as he responds.

“No. You need to find John. Moriarty got to him – he’s in an alley, injured. Severity indeterminable from the photo I was sent. My network is looking for him, but I don’t have the time.” He pauses, and the silence on the other end of the call shows him that he has Mycroft’s full attention. “I need a phone trace and CCTV tracking of John’s movements this evening, hopefully it will narrow the search radius.” Sherlock waits as he faintly hears Mycroft relaying his orders to someone (Anthea, perhaps) before replying. “We’ve begun our search. I’ll keep you updated as we learn more.”

Sherlock grits his teeth and continues pacing, fingers kneading his hair in frustration. “This is too slow,” he finally snaps into his phone, “I’m going out myself.” He ends the call, cutting off Mycroft’s reply. “No, stay there, you’ll only slow us dow-“. Pulling his coat on, Sherlock runs down the stairs, taking two at a time, and out the door, squinting through the misty air as he exits the flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty's text is a line from one of Aesop's Fables, specifically the story "The Lion's Share"  
> Oh, God. Words cannot express how sorry I am that I've taken so long with this. I originally meant for this to be a bit of creative writing practice to get me back into the habit of writing before school started again. Obviously, that plan didn't quite work. I had more on my plate than I realized over the summer, and then school began and I barely had enough time to sleep. I hope to write a lot quicker now though; my homework has been very light recently and I don't have any auditions to prepare for. Thank you so much to all the comments, kudos, etc, I really do appreciate it. Comments/criticism are always welcome, I know my writing needs work and so criticism is especially valued. Oh, and one last thing - I lost my beta, so if you see a mistake please let me know! Also, I lowered the rating because it really should have been this to begin with.


End file.
